Behind me, the screen door opened on a squeal of hinges and then banged shut again. I stepped away from the washing machines, tugging my baseball cap lower on my forehead. From the corner of my eye, I saw a woman approach, lugging a canvas bag of laundry behind her.

“Morning,” she said.

“Hi.” I busied myself gathering up my detergent and extra quarters with my back to her, tossing everything into my empty laundry basket for a quick getaway. I knew already that she wasn’t from around here. Not enough twang in her vowels, too many expensive highlights in her hair.

“Is there anywhere in town to get coffee this early?” she asked my back. I could hear her opening a washing machine, the clink of quarters.

“The Bait & Tackle, about half a mile down.” I gestured west without turning around, waiting for her to start loading in her dirty clothes so I could slip out behind her.

She sighed. “Guess I should have grabbed some at the motel before I left this morning.” The nearest motel was five miles east of here, next to a gas station and not much else. Filled now with reporters, which confirmed the sinking feeling in my gut. “I gotta ask, is there anything to do around here, or is this it?”

I pictured Barren Springs the way she was seeing it, a sad collection of buildings nestled right up against the highway. Half of them unoccupied, not even hopeful For Lease signs in the windows anymore. The ones that were occupied—this laundromat, the general store with its half-empty shelves, the sub shop, a tiny bar, the bank—not exactly shouting Come on in to strangers. The Piggly Wiggly a mile outside of the town proper was the biggest draw we had, bringing residents in need of groceries from all over the county. What she would never see was Jackson Creek, where Cal fished in solitude, or the valley near my mama’s trailer, the woods so deep and lush you could get lost ten steps in.

“You lived here long?” she asked, her voice waking up, laundry bag forgotten at her feet as I edged around her toward the door. “Because I’m a reporter. Doing a story on the murdered girls and I’d really love to talk to someone who knows this place. Are you interested?” She moved closer to me, ducking her head a little to get a better view of me.

“No,” I said, not looking at her. I reached out to push open the screen door, and the air in the room changed, tightened on her quick inhale.

“You’re Eve Taggert, aren’t you? Junie’s mom?” She laid her hand on my arm.

I did look at her then, watched her brown eyes go wide at whatever she saw on my face. She took her hand away. I shoved the door open with my shoulder, crossed the parking lot, and tossed my laundry basket in the trunk. She was waiting for me by the driver’s door of my car, blocking me from opening it with her body. “Listen,” she said, voice pitched low and even. “I just want to talk. It doesn’t even have to be about Junie. It can be about anything. Whatever you want. Don’t you have anything to say?”